


Nothing to Fear

by Serpenscript



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Rope Bondage, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpenscript/pseuds/Serpenscript
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luna is afraid of Flooing. When the twins find out, they work on a solution. Of course, it's only right that she reward their ingenuity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Smutty Claus 2014, probably the last exchange I'll do in fandom. It was quite a challenge, as het isn't my strong suit, much less a het threesome with a dominant!Luna, and I'd never written this pairing before. I think I re-wrote it from each person's perspective before going back and settling on Luna's. For all that, though, I think it came out rather well. It's certainly on the fluffy end, as far as my writing generally goes. 
> 
> Please leave me comments on this? The person I wrote this for didn't comment on it at all, and it's really bothered me :(

There are, Luna thinks, few methods of travel she hates so much as traveling by Knight Bus. 

She loves her new job - just last week they’d discovered a nest of tiny seven-legged Toe Ticklers. It had been _thrilling_ , honestly; she’d taken off her shoes and wiggled her toes in the mossy loam to entice the shy creatures out of hiding, then struggled to stand still and take pictures while they’d swarmed her feet and tickled. 

Of course, that’s the reason they’re so rare - so much so that they’ve been long thought no more than a story told by mothers to sons. It’s _dangerous_ , tickling people’s toes when they’re so tiny; after all, an entire nest could be stamped out by squirming ticklish feet. It had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, holding still - she’s _very_ ticklish, but the high-pitched chatter from the Toe-Ticklers had told her how happy and excited they were to hear her giggles and laughter as she snapped her photos. 

Of course, _she_ was happy and excited too - she’d known they were real, but now she had _proof,_ proof to shove in the faces of all the people who think she’s strange, believing in creatures that don’t exist (when she knows they _do_ , she just has to find them). 

But she works at a very large, very unPlottable preserve for magical creatures. The war had left a decimated magical world behind, and Harry Potter had financed a lot of rebuilding. He also financed a lot of new things too, like the Mythical Magical Reserve. The Reserve is protected not just from Muggles, but from unscrupulous witches and wizards who might think to profit off stealing the beautifully iridescent and fireproof shells from the eggs of fire-bellied tortoises, or to rob the wings from the nocturnal Moonwallies. Anti-apparition wards cover not just the preserve itself, but extend for several miles past the boundaries in every direction. Portkeys, too, are blocked; the only ways in and out are on foot, by broom, by car, or by monitored Floo. 

She could, and often does, fly to work in summer; she has a very lovely custom broom with her name on the handle and bristles that change color with her mood - a two year anniversary gift from Fred and George. But flying in winter is an entirely different thing. 

The Floo is - not an option. Not since the time a rogue Death Eater had attacked her when she was stepping into the Floo and he’d been dragged along with her, and the protective wards on the Floo at home had flared up and attacked him. And, because he’d been holding onto _her,_ the wards had attacked her too. A raging inferno, swirling soot and ash, air too hot to breathe - she thought she would die with him, whirling in a cyclone of flame inside the Floo system, but then the man had screamed and let go, and the Floo had spat her out at her own home, clothes on fire and hair singed away and screaming in pain. 

The scars are gone, but open flame still makes her flinch. She has no candles in her home, only fairy lights and lighting charms. She can Floo when she _has_ to, when it’s an emergency and when there’s no other option, but it makes her skin crawl all over and even knowing she’s changed the wards so that they can’t attack her, ever again, she still has nightmares for several days after using the Floo. 

So she takes the Knight Bus, even though it sometimes means strained shoulders and sprained wrists, because the driving hasn’t improved any. Cushioning charms help if she _knows_ where she’s going to land, but sometimes she doesn’t and sometimes she manages to hang on, but she always feels a little battered and bruised by the time the Knight Bus brings her to her front door. 

It’s not something she’s proud of, being afraid of _Flooing_. And Fred and George love to call her their _fearless_ leader (and lover), bragging to their friends how she’d stood beside Harry through the war, flown thestrals, fought Death Eaters, and how she works with sometimes dangerous magical creatures without blinking an eye - 

So she doesn’t tell them about her aversion to fire, and she grits her teeth when she _has_ to Floo, and tries to pretend the Knight Bus is just another adventure. And it’s worked, for the most part. 

Only today the Knight Bus seems even more erratic and wild than usual, and when a sharp turn sends her tumbling, she doesn’t manage to cast a cushioning charm fast enough, and there’s a sharp _crack_ when she bounces off the bed in front of her. A quick check of all her limbs shows it’s not her that snapped; it’s her _wand_. It hasn’t been a _terrible_ day, but it hasn’t been a _good_ one either, and breaking her wand makes something in her chest ache. Her father had gone with her when she’d went to Ollivander’s. 

She can get another wand, she knows, but they say a wizard’s second wand never feels as special as their first. And her father won’t be there with her to get a second one. 

She’s still holding the two pieces of her wand, shell-shocked when the Knight Bus deposits her at her door. 

Fred is the one who answers the door. 

“Oye! George’s making dinner, he lost the toss when I sorted out the new charm before he figured out the potion. Exploded his, actually - rather spectacularly, hope you don’t mind magenta carpet - it kind of seeped through into the room above. But -” he stops and studies her. “You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, love? What’s wrong?” 

And before she can muster up the energy and strength to smile and say she’s fine, Fred’s got her tucked comfortably on the big squashy couch in the living room, and George is fetching her a big mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream, and before she knows it, she’s telling them everything - about the Floo, and the fire, and her wand. 

“Luna, love,” Fred says, and he looks distressed. “Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“Surely you didn’t think we’d laugh at you?” George adds, looking hurt.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Luna says miserably. “You both say you like it when I’m in control, and it’s so weak and _silly_ , to be afraid of fire -”

“It’s not silly at all!” George says stoutly, and he takes away her empty mug and sends it floating back to the kitchen, so he can take one of her cold hands in his. She stares at his long, freckled fingers as they interlace with hers. “Why, ickle Fred here is afraid of sand!” 

“Oye! Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not, you tosser -”

“So you won’t mind if I set up one of our swamps in the hallway?” George says slyly, and Fred blanches. 

“Quicksand is different than sand, I’ll have you know! And if you’d told me you were adding quicksand to the swamps _before_ I tested them, I might not be!” Fred grumbles back, but there’s no heat in his words - just in his hands, and he gently rubs warmth into her other hand, after taking the broken wand and setting it aside. “Besides, better quicksand than _nutcrackers!_ ” 

Where Fred pales, George blushes. “Shut it, wanker - I have a good reason to fear those things -”

“What reason is that?” Luna asks. Their bantering back and forth makes her smile a bit, even despite her mood. “Did you find out about the Clack-weenies that nest in the mouths of nutcrackers?”

George brightens at her words and grasps at the excuse. “Why, however did you know?” 

Fred smirks. “The truth is, Luna-love, that Mum heard he was flirting with the girls and making them cry, so when Georgie here asked what a nutcracker is - “ He ducks one of George’s sharp elbows and his wild gestures to stop speaking with a broad grin. “One of the Muggleborn students had one, see -”

“Come _on_ , Freddie, she doesn’t need to hear that!”

“Well, Mum thought she would take the chance to get George here to toe the line, and said it would hunt down boys who got too fresh with the girls and bite their nuts!”

George groans and covers his face with one hand. Luna feels a warmth in her belly at the sight of the redness creeping down his neck and into his ears. 

“And then, to make the lesson sink home, Mum charmed the nutcracker to chase him around, mouth clacking, for the better part of an hour,” Fred continues gleefully. 

“Fine, fine, have your laugh,” George grumbles, pulling a long face and covering his eyes dramatically. “A bloke’s bits are valuable, I tell you - I was scarred for life!” But he smiles too, a lopsided half-smile, when Luna laughs. 

Both of the twins seem happier for having made her laugh, even if it’s at their expense. 

“Come on, Luna-love,” Fred says quietly. “Let’s eat dinner - if George hasn’t burned it too much -”

“Oye! I’m a seasoned chef, I’ll have you know! Mum taught me the secret to her shepherd’s pie!” George protests, but he too helps pull her to her feet. “But my lesser half is right, Luna-mine -”

“- some dinner, and an early night,”

“- will make tomorrow nice and bright!” 

And Luna laughs again, because it’s easy to laugh when they’re around, and it’s better than thinking about going to get a new wand, and going to work on the Knight bus again. So she eats dinner with them - and it’s _not_ burnt at all, and it’s almost as good as Molly’s cooking. And she lets them tuck her into bed and they cuddle with her until she’s asleep - _almost_ asleep, because she can feel the bed shift as they get up and creep out of the bedroom. 

Only when morning arrives does she realize they haven’t come to bed at all. It’s not an uncommon thing, exactly; they sometimes have moments of inspiration, or potions that have to be monitored overnight, or a project that keeps them so focused they don’t realize they’ve worked the night through, but she’d hoped, after the day before, to wake up with them next to her. 

Instead she finds a bleary-eyed George sitting at the table with what looks like one of their Patented Daydream Charms, while Fred mechanically fixes tea. There’s an empty coffee pot on the counter, too - which means it was inspiration that has kept them up all night. They usually drink tea; coffee is only for the all-night projects, when they need the extra edge the bitterness of coffee gives them. 

Most notably, there is a large freezer in the corner of the kitchen, gleaming with such polished chrome and white enamel that makes the rest of the kitchen, even with all its bright colors and cheerful patterns, look almost dingy.

Her brief annoyance at waking up alone melts away as curiosity replaces it, and she takes the tea Fred hands her with a grateful smile. “What did you make?” It’s one of the many things she loves about them: their ingenuity and creativity. She loves every one of their creations, whether they’re helpful like shield hats or things just for a laugh, like the Tuffy Taffy, which gave her bulging muscles like Pop-eye for a minute. 

George smiles at her, and pushes the Daydream charm at her. “You’re looking at a prototype of our newest invention, the ‘what if’ charm. You touch it with your wand, and get pulled into a memory of what could be, if things were different.”

Fred settles into a chair next to her, with his own cup of tea and smiles tiredly. “You said you worried whether or not we’d love you if you were afraid -”

“- or less in control of things -”

“- less in control of _us_ ,” Fred cuts in with a smile. “So we thought -”

“- maybe this will help show you -”

“- that our love is not so fickle.”

“Just tap the box with your wand and think of a ‘what if’,”

“- and if it works like we hope, you’ll see how much we love you.”

“If it doesn’t, you’ll have magenta hair to match the carpet in the living room,” George adds, but there’s a hint of nervousness in his words. 

Luna isn’t nervous - not about the charm working right, at least. She trusts them, and they wouldn’t test anything on her if they think it has even the smallest chance of hurting her. But she is nervous about what the What If charm will show her. 

She’s not a Gryffindor, but she’s faced down Death Eaters and worse, so she takes sip of her tea and sets it down, then taps the box with her wand. She takes a deep breath, and then the charm pulls her in. There’s a sensation of cold water running over her skin, and then awareness bleeds into a different reality.

* * * * *

Every week day morning, Fred goes to work at WWW. George stays home, and works in the laboratory they’ve set up in the basement. It helps, knowing he’s there; it’s enough that she can go about in a _semblance_ of living. She cleans the house - sometimes with experimental spells that cause more mess than anything else - but half the fun is in the _trying_ , the twins tell her, so she tries.

She tries at cooking - steamed freshwater Plimpies with mashed turnips and greens - and Erumpet-flank stew (they’re not endangered, or she’d _never_ support killing them for food, even if she was _starving_ ) with rutabagas and carrots and buttered rolls. She knows the dishes are often unappealing - and sometimes inedible, but Fred and George always eat it, and ask what adventures she had to procure her ingredients. They might laugh at her stories, but they don’t laugh at _her_ , ever.

In the afternoon, Ginny comes to stay with her, or sometimes Hermione - once even Harry came with Ginevra. She admires her childhood friend, all grown up and beautiful and _brave_. Not trapped and afraid in her own home. 

They tell her that it’s fine - that the war is over now, that Voldemort is dead and so are most of the Death Eaters - dead, or in Azkaban - but they don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if _most_ of them are dead. It wouldn’t even matter if _all_ of them were dead - because they’re already with her, in her head, under her skin. _On_ her skin. All she has to do is glance in the mirror to feel their hands on her, their knives, their spells - she can still feel the scars, too, when she runs her fingers over her skin, even though countless applications of scaradicate have made them invisible - it doesn’t matter. _She_ knows they’re there. 

She’s afraid to be alone. More than afraid - _terrified_. Ginny and Hermione and Harry, even when they remember to be vigilant, with their wand out and ready, only takes the edge off her fear. Afternoons, while Fred and George are gone, she doesn’t live at all. She paces; she grips her wand in one white-knuckled, sweaty palm and flinches at the smallest sound. 

Louder sounds make her hide - there’s a closet in the hall that Fred and George have modified into a Panic Room for her. It’s protected by a Fidelius charm, just that room itself; it’s got food and water for several days, and a bed, and even a chamber pot. Fred and George warded it with every protection and defense they know, and when she can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t _anything_ because of the terror pounding through her mind, she runs - or crawls, if it’s bad - to the Panic Room to hide until Fred and George come home. 

Ginny and Hermione know about it; Harry knows _of_ it, but she won’t give him the secret. It’s nothing against Harry - she _knows_ he’s one of the good blokes, and he killed Voldemort, after all - but he’s _male_. 

Fred and George are the only ones allowed in the Panic Room, and not just because they built it for her. 

When the afternoon shift ends, Fred and George come home for dinner, and then it’s George’s time to go into work alone, and Fred putters in the basement laboratory. George is the one good with potions, but Fred is the better one at spells and charm work. Together they make clever prank items for their store, but she knows even more than building pranks, they use their skills to make her feel safer - like the mechanical guard sphinx that can smell intent (sometimes - it’s about a 50/50 chance, but she appreciates the thought more than they know) and the border of all-season orchids planted around the house’s perimeter, whose pollen makes people narcoleptic (which is supposed to help deter any people who might break in, as a sleeping wizard is a sitting duck, theoretically - but it also helps with avoiding bossy-but-well-meaning in-laws). 

But even with all their spells and charms and clever potions, Luna only feels _safe_ when they’re _both_ home; when she’s in bed with them, one on each side, protecting her. When she knows they fall asleep, each of them with a hand on their wand, even though the war is over, just so _she_ can feel safe and sleep without fear. 

She’s tried, sometimes, to convince them she’s not worth it. She’s useless; she’s afraid of _everything_ , she relies on them for day-to-day survival. She’s only a burden to them, always clinging, always _needing_ \- and what’s more, she knows other people think it, too. Friends of Fred and George have tried to convince them to take her to St Mungo’s and leave her there. 

“Absolutely not,” Fred always snaps. 

“Not an option, mate -” George continues. 

“Give our gorgeous -”

“- beautiful, odd, precocious,”

“- wildly talented lover -”

“ - over to the dull and -”

“ - prank-less life of St. Mungos?” 

“We could never be -”

“- so cruel and heartless!”

“We promised her forever,” Fred says solemnly. 

“For better or worse,” George adds. 

“It doesn’t matter how afraid she is,” 

“ - she’ll have _us_ to fight whatever it is -”

“ - for as long as she needs us -”

“ - and always.”

_Always_. Even when she huddles in her panic room, barely able to breathe, she remembers their promise, and it’s enough that she can hold on, keep on, in the hours that they’re gone, clinging to the promise they’ll be there, that they’ll come back. And she thinks - hopes, prays - that the fear is slowly lessening. Not gone, but - the grip of terror around her chest and stroking cold fingers up her spine isn’t as terrible as it was a year ago. Only slightly - but still. 

It gives her hope that someday their strength will be enough for her.

* * * * *

If sinking _into_ the What-If Charm had felt like a cool shower, rising back out of it felt like warm sunshine, and she has to blink away tears when she’s once again sitting between Fred and George.

“We - we weren’t _that_ bad, were we?” George says a little uncertainly. 

Fred squeezes her hand gently, but his eyes are anxious. “What did you see?” 

“Nothing bad, you two,” she tells them smiling, but she can’t help sniffling a little. She knows they love her, of course, but she couldn’t help worrying, all the same. _What if -_

Now she knows. 

“But it’s not supposed to make you _cry_ ,” Fred objects. 

“It’s not bad,” she repeats, more sure of herself now. “There were no Bilious Flesheaters or Nightmare Goreblies, I promise. Just you both, being you.” 

“That’s a good thing, right?” Fred asks, and George smirks and nudges him. 

“Course it is, isn’t that so, Luna mine?” 

The two look and act so similar in public but in the privacy of their own home they let down their walls, and Luna sees them as the two very individual people they are - two people, perhaps, but with two halves of two souls. 

George, she’s learned, is usually the instigator; he likes to be in charge, and he’s possessive of what he has - something she’d been surprised to learn, because he shares everything with Fred, and vice versa. 

Fred, on the other hand, is the planner, the thinker; she’s discovered George will give up on more difficult problems without Fred’s tenacity and encouragement. 

George is good at potions; Fred is better at charms. George calls her ‘Luna mine’ while Fred calls her ‘Luna love’. Fred likes to sleep curled in a tight ball, while George sprawls across the length of the bed if he can. 

She gives them a watery smile. “I saw a world where I was afraid all the time, where the war had left scars on my spirit. But you both loved me anyway, and protected me, and stood by me. You promised you’d always be there for me.” 

“Well, that’s true in any case,” George says easily, though he looks even more concerned. “We’re here for you, Luna, as long as you’ll have us -”

“- and likely even if you won’t,” Fred adds earnestly. “Don’t shut us out when you’re afraid, Luna love. Tell us when something’s wrong.”

“We can’t help if we don’t know something’s wrong. And even if you think there’s nothing we can do, tell us anyway. Didn’t you know, Luna mine? A burden shared -”

“- is a burden halved. Er, thirded? Is there even a word for that?” 

“Anyway, the charm wasn’t all we were working on. Or not the only charm. We’ve got something else to show you, though it’s not quite finished.” 

“Did you happen to notice our new extra large industrial-sized icebox?” Fred tugs on her hands gently until she stands and allows herself to be led over to the other side of the kitchen, where a tall Muggle appliance is placed against the wall. When he pulls the door open, icy air curls out and tingles against her skin; she can feel her nipples hardening underneath her tee-shirt. 

The freezer is completely empty, though, and large enough that even a taller wizard than Fred and George could step into the opening without having to duck. The back of the freezer, though - it’s solid ice, opaque with glimmers of shadow and light moving within. Experimentally, she touches it; it’s cold, but doesn’t crack when she pushes against it.

“We, ah, it’s still in the early stages, but it’s essentially a Floo. We did some research on the runes and found out that it’s element-based, but that any element could work - fire was just the easiest. Cold was the second easiest, and we thought you might prefer it, being the absence of heat, so we worked with that.” 

George takes over the explanation as Luna stares at him with surprise. “We did a bit of rune work, and it’s not quite legal - since we kind of hijacked the Floo network to test it - but we only hooked it up to the Burrow, nowhere else, so it’s safe. But we were able to Floo to the Burrow and back using it. The powder is a chemical catalyst that forms ice crystals from the air, and a spell generates a small whirlwind to scatter it, much like normal Floo powder creates a burst of flame to serve as an open gate.”

What they’re saying - it slowly sinks in and she blinks and looks back and forth between them, holding her breath.

“The ice turns intangible when the snow hits it, and you literally spin through the Floo network in a whirl of snow and ice - there wasn’t a bit of soot on us when we reached the Burrow, and our clothes were covered in frost - not a bit of heat touched us!” George holds out a tin - it had held Christmas cookies once. 

Even the Floo powder doesn’t look the same - it looks like white shimmery _glitter_ more than it looks like the gritty sand that graces the mantlepiece over every wizarding fireplace. And when she throws a fist full of the glittery stuff into the mouth of the icebox, ice crystals bloom from the floor of the freezer, before dissolving into a whirl of snow - but there’s no flame, no heat at all. 

“It’s because of the change in temperature, and something to do with humidity,” Fred offers. “We’ve tested it, and it works just like a normal Floo so far, but we haven’t quite figured out how to make return trips work - it’s ice on _this_ end, but you’d still have to step into a fireplace on the other end -”

“But we’re not giving up,” George adds hastily. “We’re experimenting with flame-freezing charms, this is just our earliest functional prototype. We’ve got some ideas of -”

But Luna’s not listening anymore. Her chest feels warm and full to bursting with happiness; she looks at them and _feels_ , and it’s enough to drive even the Minzytocks crazy. They love her. They really, truly, honest-to-nargles _love_ her, weaknesses and all. Enough to stay up _all night_ trying to find a way to make her travel safely, in a way that _she_ feels safe. 

And travelling by Floo - snow or not - is suddenly the last thing on her mind.

“George, bedroom; turn down the blankets and get the bedroom ready.” 

Her throat feels tight, but her voice is strong and confident. She feels like she’s floating. “Fred, fetch your rope and bring it to the bedroom, too.” 

The change is immediate; their concern melts away, replaced by anticipation. 

George snaps off a salute - he always obeys, but he does it with sass and style that’s entirely _George_ \- and rushes off. Fred smiles at her a little bashfully, but he takes the time to close the freezer and lock it so no one else can enter through it. 

Luna wanders towards the bedroom, smiling when Fred catches up to her. George is already there; the blankets on the large four-poster are folded back to reveal the light blue sheets with darker blue stripes that she likes so much. The bed itself is enormous; it would fill most of the room, were it not for Wizarding extension charms to expand the room. 

The walls themselves are white, but the ceiling is a mural - not of friends, because she sees her friends often these days - but full of magical creatures she hopes to someday find and document. 

But right now she has no eyes for the bed, or for the creatures on the ceiling. Just as the twins have their twin persona - a carefully coordinated act of sameness between them in public that slips when they’re alone - she lets some of her ‘looniness’ slide away when they’re in the bedroom. In the bedroom _she’s_ in control, and it makes her feel alive and powerful and real in a way she doesn’t feel the rest of the time.

“George, undress for me,” she orders breathlessly, moving to sit on the bed. Fred moves to sit at her feet; of the two of them, she’s found that Fred craves physical contact more than George. She combs her fingers through his curly red hair - so similar to the man in front of her who winks and waggles his eyebrows and wiggles his hips. 

It’s more comedic than sexy as George undresses for her. He _could_ be seductive, she knows, because he has been - but it’s George’s nature to clown around, even in the bedroom. It doesn’t make him any less lovely to look at, and she licks her lips as George sheds layers, her fingers tightening in Fred’s hair. 

Both of them are still tall and lanky, with wide shoulders and scattered freckles. She knows both of their freckles by heart, she thinks; there’s a cluster of freckles on George’s hip that she likes to connect with her tongue, and there’s a thick scattering of freckles on Fred’s shoulders that she likes to bite because he makes the most wonderful sounds when she does - and she likes seeing her marks on his skin, even if they’re usually hidden under his robes. 

She makes a sound herself when George shimmies out of his trousers and pants. She loves the sight of George’s cock, half hard already; she wants to lick it, but she makes herself stay on the bed, because she wants to give back to them, show them that just as they look after her, she looks after _them,_ and she knows what they need. 

So she smiles saucily at George, looks her fill - watches the way his breath hitches when she licks her lips again with another sigh of pleasure, watches the way his cock fills and bobs to attention in time with his heartbeat, until it juts from the auburn curls at his groin and the deep purplish-red of the glans peeks from the foreskin. 

“On the bed, George,” she says, and she rubs the toes of her left foot against Fred’s ribs. “On your back, and touch yourself. Tease and play with yourself, but you’re not allowed to come until I’m riding you.” 

He groans and whines and complains and cajoles - because he’s _George_ , and he has to tease her into laughing even in sex - but his cock leaps and twitches at her orders and he sprawls out eagerly on the bed, lean thighs splayed, and wraps long freckled fingers around his cock and strokes. 

Fred is patiently waiting for attention at her feet, but she likes making him wait because he likes waiting on _her,_ so she teases his ribs with her toes and watches George wank. It’s a sight that makes her feel warm and wet, but after a moment she looks back down at Fred and tugs gently on his curly hair. She watches avidly as he unfolds himself to stand up; both of them move gracefully, but there’s bit more gracefulness in the way Fred moves, and she likes it. 

She likes it, too, when he stands quietly while she undresses him - like unwrapping a present that’s just for her. And she likes the way his breath catches when her fingers graze his skin, just as much as she likes watching George strip and gyrate for her

If George thrives on pleasure and exhibition, Fred thrives on submission and service. They’re two halves of one whole, yet both of them complete in their own right, and she loves that she’s the one who sees both their similarities and differences.

Many nights, she makes them work for their pleasure; not because she likes withholding it (though it _is_ fun, sometimes, to have two men so eager to please), but because _they_ so much like to please. Something she’d learned by accident, a twist of fate and a wild mood that had taken her, when they were flirting - 

_“If you want to shag me, it’s my way,” she’d said bluntly. Boys had teased her before, leading her on only to laugh at her later. “You’ll have to ask nicely. And work for it.”_

_She thought the twins would laugh and leave her alone after that. But George had shivered, and Fred had flushed._

_“Dear Merlin, that’s -”_

_“-- the hottest thing -”_

_“-- I’ve ever heard!”_

It had taken time before she’d opened up and trusted them - and just as long for them to open up to her, and trust her with the men underneath the prankster personas they’d perfected. 

_We complement each other,_ she thinks fondly, as she pulls Fred up onto the bed and positions him. It’s one of his favorite positions, kneeling with his knees spread, arms grasping his elbows behind his back. She likes the position, too, likes seeing him kneeling in a position that lets her look and look and look. 

He smiles at her as she looks, and his cock lays thick and heavy against one thigh - he arouses slower than George, she’s learned. But he still sucks in a breath when she runs her fingers over the contours of his chest and teases his nipples into tight peaks. She’s lost count of how many times she’s touched them - how many times they’ve had sex - but she never gets tired of exploring his body, wondering at the sensitivity of his skin. 

She drags her nails slightly over the dusky pink of his nipples and he arches - she likes that, too; and he likes it, his cock filling and lengthening, and Luna feels more heat, and wetness, between her legs. 

The rope is soft, supple, yet strong enough to work with. Fred had made the rope for her specially, their first Christmas together; it’s dyed a bright blue, her favorite color. She likes the vibrant color against Fred’s pale freckled skin. And Fred, she knows, likes the feel of the rope against his skin. 

There are any number of complicated harnesses she could do with the rope, and even more complicated ties she could do with a bit of magic, but she chooses a simple tie instead. Simple, but confining, weaving loops to trap Fred’s arms against his side. She touches his skin constantly, and it’s not just for contact; she slides her fingers underneath each knot and loop to check the tension, to ensure they’re not too tight or too uncomfortable; she wouldn’t hurt Fred for the world. 

Fred shivers and leans into her touch, eyes falling closed in surrender - it’s a beautiful thing, she thinks - _knows_ , and she won’t do anything to jeopardise it. So she watches him carefully, lays the ropes carefully, ties her knots carefully, and runs her hands over his skin and feels his feet and hands to make sure his blood is circulating properly. It’s an honor, his submission; that, and a responsibility. She takes it seriously. 

Fred’s cock is hard and dripping when she’s finished; his face is flushed and his breathing is ragged. His arms are secured behind his back, his legs are tied so he must kneel, and the rope makes a simple but appealing diamond pattern down his torso, the last diamond just fitting around his groin - the moan he’d made when the rope had brushed his cock and balls had made Luna shiver herself. 

He looks beautiful and erotic, and she means to leave him untouched until she’s seen to George, but she can’t help it; she leans forward and kisses him, hard and hungry, and he whimpers and kisses her back until she’s breathless and his lips are swollen. She thinks he looks even better after that, and the needy sound he makes when she pulls away makes her feel very wet indeed. 

“You are lovely,” she tells him, and she loves the way his cock leaps at the praise. “Very lovely, and I want to watch you, and have you watch me, while I ride George’s cock until I come, and then _he_ can come.” 

George groans on the bed next to her, and when she glances over he has his hand wrapped around the base of his cock hard. “Fuck, Luna mine, when you say things like that - you’ll drive a bloke _mad_ with need!” But his words are full of approval and appreciation. 

“May I come when you do?” Fred asks, breathlessly, and she smiles at him, a bit wickedly. Sometimes he can come just from watching her fuck George, but sometimes she makes him wait until after; it frustrates him to no end, but she knows he likes it, too; likes that she asks him to, and trusts him to listen. And she knows it’s often more intense for him if he has to wait longer for it. 

“Not until I tell you to, Fred,” she says, “I want you to wait until I’m ready for you, hard and aching.” 

He whimpers, but his cock leaps, and he doesn’t look away as she moves of the bed to stand and undress. _Both_ their eyes are glued on her, and she wiggles and twists as she peels off the comfortable tee-shirt and plaid pajama pants off. She knows she’s not beautiful in a conventional sense, because she’d been told so often when she was at Hogwarts, but when Fred and George look at her with longing and need she feels like the most beautiful woman in the world. 

She smirks as she shimmies out of her knickers and rejoins them on the bed. George has to squeeze at his cock again, and Fred shifts, leaning towards her with want on his face, and their desire for her makes her feel empty and eager for them. She wants them; she loves them, and she’ll show them how much. 

Fred whines when she turns away from him, but George won’t last much longer after all the wanking - and she _does_ like to watch him stroking himself, familiar with all the things that he likes and teasing himself and holding back because _she_ asked him to.

George’s cock is flushed from the attention he’s given it; precome makes the glans slick, and because it looks so tempting, she leans over to lick at it. It’s a taste she’s learned to like; salty, though not as much as actual semen. More than the taste, though, she loves the way George curses and his hips buck, and his hands twist in the sheets. 

“Luna - Luna mine, I love you, never doubt that, but you’ve had me hard and wanking and I am _not_ going to last if you tease me like that -” 

And she loves that too, the taut note in George’s voice when he’s aroused so he can hardly think. She likes the times when they touch her, and the things they can do to her, but there’s a kind of erotic magic to feeling and seeing them respond to _her_ touch that arouses her. 

George’s hands help steady her as she straddles his hips; she positions his cock and sinks down onto him, and _oh_. Oh, it feels wonderful; and she throws her head back and groans just as loudly as George does - she can feel it, feel the sound vibrate in his chest, feel the tension in his body, feel the heat of his cock inside her, rubbing at all the right places and filling the ache she has when she _wants_ her lovers so badly. 

“Oh - oh, you feel so _good,_ ” she says breathlessly, and when she rolls her hips she feels George shudder underneath her, hands tightening on her hips. “So hot, filling me -” 

“I - fuck, you’re beautiful -”

It makes her shiver and feel good all over. Fred and George are so quick with words; to reduce them to gasps and moans and broken sentences makes her think she really _is_ worth their attention - when George arches underneath her and stares and _stares_ , and cups and kneads her breasts reverently like she’s the most amazing thing - 

She rolls her hips again, and again, and when she lifts up on her knees to slide down on him George moans, and his hands flex on her hips. 

“George, _fuck_ me,” she says, and her own voice is breathless and demanding, and it makes George shudder too, but when she rises and lowers on him, his hips buck, driving his cock up into her, and it feels _good_ , feels amazing, and she doesn’t even try to stay quiet, because George loves to hear the sounds she makes. 

And she makes a lot of sounds, little mewls of pleasure and throaty cries when George arches up and his cock drives into her and fills her, hard and deep the way she loves it. It’s even better when his fingers lightly pinch and pull and play with her nipples and she shivers and clenches around him and _he_ groans and his cock twitches inside her, and she can _hear_ how wet she is when he moves, the wet slick sounds of their coupling - 

And then she doesn’t think at all, about sounds or words, just feels, George’s hands on her and his cock _in_ her and Fred watching, and then one of George’s hands is between their bodies, his fingers finding the place at the apex of her thighs and circling the nub there until she wails and tightens and trembles, riding out the wave of pleasure, and underneath her George shouts and bucks and thrusts wildly, calling out her name and then he’s shuddering too, and his face goes slack in bliss - she loves that too, the way his goofy expressionate face goes soft and slack when he comes. 

And afterwards, she lays against his chest and gasps for breath and listens to his racing heartbeat, and he whispers _Luna mine, Luna mine - Luna, Luna_ , until she gets her breath back. 

She likes the way she feels when she gets off him, and his softening cock slides out of her body, and the sticky feel of semen on her thighs - though she doesn’t like it once it dries. She savours the tiredness in her limbs and the vague soreness between her legs and the feeling of a good workout.

She doesn’t forget Fred though; she can feel him watching, and even though she knows he likes watching - likes being tied up and restricted to a passive role - she also knows he likes it even more when she touches him afterwards, rewards him with touch and praise and attention. And she knows George likes to watch her with Fred, just like Fred likes to watch her with George. 

So she sits up and turns to Fred. His face is flushed and he leans forward, breaking position with eagerness to be touched. His cock is still hard and precome leaves a slick trail down the shaft of his prick and some has left a damp spot on the sheets beneath him. His cock is so hard it almost looks painful, and when she brushes light fingertips teasingly over the weeping glans Fred shudders all over and bites his lip, but he doesn’t beg. She’d never _make_ him beg, not her beautiful Fred.

Her mouth waters to taste him, but safety comes first; Fred knows and she knows, and they both enjoy the routine. He practically vibrates as she runs her hands over his skin, checking under the ropes for chafing and rubbing his feet and hands until she’s sure his circulation is still good and he can still feel his extremities. 

He whines when she bends forward and her hair falls over his lap and _almost_ teases his cock, but then she licks his nipple, and he arches and whispers her name in a breathless way that makes her quiver inside, between her legs. So she licks again, and sucks and nibbles at the tight nub until his breathing is ragged and his body is tense and straining at his binds. 

Only then does she let herself stretch out on the bed, on her stomach, and squirm between his thighs to lick his cock. She loves the taste of their skin - nearly identical, but she thinks they taste different - Fred like Fred and George like George, and she loves both of them, the way they taste. 

She licks him from root to tip and he makes sounds - groans and sighs and words like _fuck_ and _merlin_ and _love you_ and _beautiful_ and _amazing_ , and she hums her happiness as precome smears on her lips and cheeks and she swirls her tongue around the weeping glans and his hips buck. 

She takes her time, because that’s how Fred likes it, and because _she_ likes it, exploring him and pleasuring him with her mouth as he arches and bucks against the ropes. She likes the soft spongy feel of the glans, and the silky-soft skin of the shaft over the rigid hardness, and the contrast of the wiry red pubic hair and the crinkled skin of his bollocks. 

He sobs her name like a prayer on repeat when she opens her mouth to him and swallows him, and it makes all the effort to learn the skill worthwhile; the look on his face, the sheer pleasure and happiness she gives him - 

She hums as she pulls back for air, and swallows him again, letting him slide deeper into her throat, and again, each time a little deeper until her lips are stretched widely around the base of his cock, and she _swallows._

It’s George who swears, _Luna, fuck, so amazing, incredible, what you do to us_ \- because Fred can’t, can’t think, can’t speak - he moans and bucks into her mouth, twice, a third time, and Luna pulls back in time for him to come in her mouth. She closes her eyes and licks and sucks and swallows and savors the bitter saltiness because it’s Fred, and it’s something only _she_ gets to taste, because they love her and she loves them. 

Afterwards, when Fred can sit upright without support again, she gently unties the ropes, coiling it carefully for the next time. There are red lines on Fred’s skin, and she traces them with her fingers as with a happy sigh of content as they curl in bed together; George pulls the blankets up over them, and Fred curls up against her side. 

“Thank you, Freddie, thank you George,” she tells them. “For loving me.” 

“Even if we turned the carpet magenta?” George asks sleepily. 

“Even if we turned the Freezer chartreuse?” Fred teases.

“Mmm-hmm.” Luna snuggles down between her lovers, happy and safe and loved. She feels fearless with them on either side of her. “Even if it was the color of a Pimpled Plank-nosed Scrudger.”


End file.
